


Second of Death

by AndThatWasEnough



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Eldritch, Gen, Horror, Religious Fanaticism, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 00:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21044969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndThatWasEnough/pseuds/AndThatWasEnough
Summary: Sometimes the worst monsters are the ones we create ourselves.





	Second of Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amberdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams/gifts).

> This was written as a part of the 2019 SPN Eldritch Bang, with art done by the AMAZING Amberdreams! Working with them was awesome, and I can't thank them enough. Please be sure to check out the art masterpost so you can read more about their art process!
> 
> Happy reading :)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/48901913738/in/photostream/lightbox/)

The walk from the main house to the creek bed was easiest at night, when the heat – still stifling in Mississippi even this close to the holidays – had retreated and the stars were out, the moon hung high in the sky. Lizbeth could see the genius of the Creator on these walks; when she looked up at the Heavens, she could see all of God’s glory laid out before her, and her love for Him multiplied. Then she’d have to turn her eyes and flashlight back to the path in front of her so she wouldn’t wander too far and find herself somewhere she shouldn’t. But she couldn’t resist! He had been so good to build this world so beautifully.

On an ordinary night, Lizbeth would grab her flashlight and either her Bible or one of her other books and sneak out of the house, following this path she knew so well to her hiding spot so she could be alone with her thoughts and the Lord. It wasn’t much of a hiding spot, really – just a little ways down the creek to a little grassy spot in a sort of alcove – but it was hers, and that’s what mattered to Lizbeth. In a family of her size, so little was truly her own. Maybe her older siblings and parents would say that was selfish of her, and Lizbeth didn’t want to make excuses for her sinful, selfish heart, but they were all of them sinners, even the best of Christians. Lizbeth also didn’t want anyone to think she knew better than God because she certainly didn’t, but she didn’t think it was so bad for her to want some quiet time in a quiet spot she could call all her own that hadn’t been touched by anyone else in her family.

However, this was not an ordinary night. Tonight, there were no books – not even the Bible – just Lizbeth and her flashlight, an uneasiness in her stomach. Usually, the farm fields and the tree line and the creek felt as much like home to her as the actual house, but tonight the shadows of the trees stretched too long and scraggly, and the moonlight wavered behind dark nighttime clouds, and every rustle in the grasses made her jump. Certainly, the Lord was always with them at every step, but tonight…tonight she wondered what He had in store for her and her family. 

Grandpa Dan had gone out with his dog, Titan, for a walk. Just like he always did. Maybe the family hadn’t been so wise to let him do that anymore, now that he was not only getting on in years but was growing senile. It had been difficult to see him deteriorate the way he had, forgetting how to do even the simplest of things, but it was the Lord’s plan for them, and it was unwise to intervene. The only thing their grandfather had been willing to do, and insisted on doing on his own, was walk that old hound dog of his. Didn’t even take a leash, just let Titan lope along beside him or just a few paces ahead, leading him through the fields and back – Titan was still sharp as the day he was born. Seems tonight, though, Titan had lead his master astray, because nobody had seen either Grandpa Dan or his dog since after dinner. Lizbeth felt just awful; she’d been spending a lot of time looking after her grandfather lately, not just because her parents had told her to but because of a strong sense of familial duty. Honor thy father and mother, and all that good stuff. She owed it to her grandfather, who had kept this farm running with their grandmother before her father had taken over, had provided for their family, loved Grandma Betty with a true Corinthians 13 Love, and had been a true leader and servant to God. He deserved being looked after in his old age. Lizbeth’s family agreed with her, it’s just that…well, they were so busy with so many other things…maybe.

The gap in the trees where Lizbeth usually found her way to her spot looked something akin to the Gates of Hell tonight; not a gate of welcome, leading her to quiet and time with God, but instead a trapdoor that led to something very sinister, indeed. Off in the distance, Mama and Daddy and a few of Lizbeth’s siblings – Elijah, Thomas, and her brother-in-law – could be heard calling their missing family members’ names into the night. Her older sister, Maryann, had valiantly volunteered to check the old barn. The whole situation was truly horrific, is what it was. In all of Lizbeth’s life, she’d been blessed to have not seen much tragedy. Grandma’s death had been sad, of course, but she had led such a fulfilling, holy life full of love for the Lord and her family and her community that it was much easier to come to peace with it. Lizbeth didn’t want to think too much about the possibility that her grandfather could be dead, but her mind was leading her to that dark place. At best, her grandfather was out there, alone and scared, maybe hurt. But she knew, deep down, that probably wasn’t the truth. He and Titan had been gone too long. She and her family had to prepare themselves for the worst, and Lizbeth said a silent prayer as she tiptoed carefully through the gap and walked along the side of the creek, alternating between directing her flashlight in front of her and to either side, calling Grandpa Dan’s and Titan’s names, hoping to hear any sign of life, not to stumble upon a more unfortunate sight.

The creek was a little higher than usual from the recent rain, and as Mama had warned Lizbeth from a young age, you could drown in even two inches of water – a thought she tried to push out of her head, instead focusing on praying for her grandfather and his dog, hoping that she – or somebody else, preferably – would find them safe, maybe a little worse for wear, but safe all the same. She willed the Lord to hear her, but also let Him know she knew that He knew best and knew what path they were all meant to follow, and that if something truly bad had happened tonight, it was because He was calling Daniel and Titan home. It was His way.

While in the midst of all this prayer, Lizbeth’s mind had wandered from her task and paying attention to where she was stepping, and her foot caught in a root, and with a yelp, she tumbled to the earth, flashlight falling from her hand and rolling away into the creek. The ground was damp with the rain, and mud clung to her arms, her hands, her legs, and her clothes. She’d scraped her knee, and the foot that had gotten caught in the root didn’t feel so great, either. And her flashlight was getting away.

“Oh!” Lizbeth cried, running in after it. She was feeling so desperately frustrated. Her grandfather was missing, his dog was missing, she was all dirty, her ankle hurt, her knee was bleeding, and now she was chasing after her flashlight like some sort of fool. But she needed it! The moonlight wasn’t enough here – the trees were too thick along the creek. What else was she going to do – _not _chase after it?

That’s when the horrible thing happened. Or – it had already happened. This particular moment was just when Lizbeth learned about it happening.

The Lord always hears you. Lizbeth knew that He heard her frustrations. But He knew best.

It was all revealed to her in increments. First, her leg hit against something solid, and she found Titan stuck in the muck, sliced wide open, his poor doggy face frozen forever in terror. Lizbeth gasped and put a fist to her mouth, biting back a sob. Now she was well and truly frightened – whatever had done that to Titan was probably still out there, maybe even watching her right now. That poor dog. What must have his last moments on this Earth been like? And who – or what sort of creature – would _dare? _

Oh, but it got so much worse.

The wind suddenly picked up, carrying with it a sense of foreboding. There was something dark here, certainly. Or, something dark had been here recently. As Lizbeth pried her eyes open and lowered her fist from her mouth, she came to realize that the stream had turned warm, and now shaking, she looked down to see that even in the dark, she could tell she was now standing in a river of blood so putrid and rich that she gagged, and could no longer see Titan’s body below her. What she _could _see, however – or, what she could see after what she initially _heard _– was her grandfather standing in the stream several feet in front of her, bathed in blood.

“_This is the second of death,_” he recited in a voice that was not his own. Lizbeth noted how imposing he seemed in that moment, scarier than he’d ever been in his life, before he collapsed.

And that’s when Lizbeth finally screamed.

xXx

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/48902445091/in/photostream/lightbox/)

They were desperate for work.

Any job, just send it their way. The thinnest lead.

They could get along during a case; they had a job to focus on, something other than themselves. The greater good, and all that. But the nearby local papers were turning up absolutely nothing, the motel they were in had just about the shittiest wireless connection for a hundred miles, and it’s not like you could trust the local news channel for shit. Sam and Dean were just about crawling the walls. This situation would have been bad enough during the best of times, but right now? When it felt as if everything was going to shit, being pulled apart by the seams? When if felt as if all the rules had gone out the window? When you had all of that and all you could do was sit around and mope because you can’t find a goddamn job? Fuckin’…fuckin’ A, man.

“You always pick the shittiest motels,” Sam griped, trying for what must have been the eighty-seven-billionth time to find an internet connection. It was his one true talent – why did it have to fail him now?

This was a perfect opportunity for a pithy reply, but with his face buried in the comforter, all Dean could come up with was, “Shut the fuck up.” 

“Erudite. So clever. Dean, you’re the wittiest person in a generation.”

“I repeat – _shut the fuck up_.”

“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you through your bullshit – or was that just the comforter?”

Dean was about to either repeat himself for the third time or go absolutely ballistic – he hadn’t quite decided yet, had decided to let himself just be surprised and let the moment move him – when Sam’s phone rang. Sam jumped on it immediately, probably with the same thought (same hope) that Dean had: _Please be Bobby. Please be Bobby. PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY BE BOBBY AND GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF THIS MOTEL ROOM AND SOMEWHERE ELSE ANYWHERE ELSE COULD BE FUCKING HELSINKI FOR ALL I CARE JUST GET ME OUT OF HERE. _

“Bobby, hey,” Sam breathed, and Dean looked up and rested his head in his arms like he was some sort of playgirl on the beach, kicking his legs a bit and everything. His brother leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his unruly mop, nodding and _uh-huh_ing every now and then. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah. Where? Mississippi. Yeah, we’re in Virginia now. Yeah. Yeah, okay. Where exactly? Lemme write that down. Uh-huh. Yep. Jesus, repeat that? Wow, Bobby. Yeah, that is kinda fucked up. Definitely sounds like it could be our kind of thing. Okay. Yeah, we’ll check it out. See ya. Bye.”

Dean sat up. “Please tell me that was a case.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Don’t act like you weren’t listening. Anyway, get this – there’s this family, owns this farm in rural Mississippi, and a few nights ago, the grandfather and his dog go missing. The family goes out looking for them, and one of the daughters finds the dog sliced open and her grandfather in the river. Papers say he drowned.”

“Huh,” Dean blinked. “Doesn’t _sound_ like our kinda thing.”

“It gets weirder.” It always did. “In the paper’s report of the incident, the girl who found the bodies said that the river had turned to blood.”

Sam was smirking, like that was supposed to impress Dean or something. All Dean could think was that he hoped this wasn’t another one of those seals the angels were always going on about. He sighed and smeared a hand down his face. “Really?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure,” Sam shrugged, “but Bobby did a little digging on his own, and the family’s one of those uber-religious ones like the Duggars or whatever.”

“Who?”

“That family that has, like, seventeen kids or whatever. Point is, this Martin family from Mississippi is weird, and it’s worth checking out.”

Dean heartily agreed. It was the first lead they’d had in ages; anything to get out of this motel room and focused on something, even if it was a seal, even if they had to deal with angels, because some uber-religious chick standing in a river of blood probably meant _something_. That was the problem these days, though. Used to be, hunts didn’t mean anything. They were jobs. You had to think of them in the most distanced, mundane of ways in order to keep yourself from drowning in the knowledge of what a horrible, horrible job it was. You went in, did the job, and got out. Maybe you got a night with the damsel you saved, or maybe the job was a paying one, or the guy’s wife would make you dinner as a thanks, but usually, hunting was a thankless, almost monotonous job with absolutely zero benefits. But it was what Sam and Dean knew. There was a sort of routine to it. These days, though, that had all gone out the window. Their hunts lately usually revealed something darker, more sinister behind them than your average, run-of-the-mill monster, and that was the rub. Also, it sort of made Dean feel old? He was using phrases like _‘used to be’ _like he was some eighty-year-old codger living out the rest of his life in a retirement home and boring his grandchildren with stories about the old days.

This job was looking like it was going to be one of those something-more ones.

“’Lizbeth Martin, of Pearl, Mississippi, appeared to be in a severe state of shock following the incident, reporting such strange things that the creek she found the bodies in was running with blood, and that her grandfather’s body, upon closer inspection, appeared to have suffered the same fate as the dog, but had still been able to speak to her before collapsing,’” Sam read to Dean on the drive. 

Local papers sure were something else. They all had this gossipy tone to them, almost as if they weren’t actually worried about reporting the news but dishing the dirt on local happenings. Sam figured this sort of thing couldn’t really be considered true journalism, but it’s not like they were getting their cases out of _The New York Times_. That’d really be the day.

“What the hell kinda name is Lizbeth?” Dean asked. “Is it short for Elizabeth?”

“No,” Sam shook his head. “That’s just her name. Says here she lives with her family on their farm, which they’ve had in the family for generations, so it checks out with Bobby’s research. Her grandfather owned it before her father did. Guess they’re pretty well-known around Pearl for being sort of…odd.”

That was underselling it. The article definitely had a sort of…disdainful tone to it when talking about the family. It was sometimes hard to tell in writing, especially when papers were _supposed _to be at least a bit more impartial, but to Sam, at least, it all seemed to suggest that no one took them seriously, and not just in this situation, but _ever_. Religious kooks – it’s one of their many crosses to bear, being looked at as if they’re some sort of anomaly. Oh, pity them! Pity the poor unfortunate souls! They who have found God.

Yeah, right. Give them a break.

It did make Sam pause, though. They had learned a lot about the inner workings of the universe lately, more than either brother really wanted to know. Sam had always had faith, that was true. He believed there was a God – a capital-G God – that had put them here, and he prayed to Him in hopes that maybe one day, He would hear. Sam prayed about all sorts of things. He prayed for himself, and he prayed for Dean. For Bobby. He prayed for their parents, hoping they were in a good place. For the people they had saved, and the ones they hadn’t. He prayed about things going on in the world, for President-Elect Obama (which would probably get him shot for saying out loud in Pearl, Mississippi). Mostly, though, he prayed to God to help him do the right thing. Sam hoped what he was doing was the right thing. Dean wasn’t the only one with reservations, even if he liked to think so. Sam knew. He knew. It’s just he figured the calculated risk was worth it. 

But he still hoped he was right about that. And he still prayed to Him for guidance.

What did God make of an unnatural thing such as himself? Sam knew he’d been used, sure, but he was trying to turn this bad situation into something good. He had to believe he could do that. God could understand that, couldn’t He? Making lemonade from these cosmic lemons. 

“So, when you and Bobby say these people are uber-religious, what exactly does that mean? I mean, I thought the Amish were all in, like, Pennsylvania or whatever, and that these guys would be Baptist or something. We’re in the Bible Belt – ain’t that what they all are?”

“I think so,” Sam sighed. “It means that they’re a bunch of Bible-thumping fundamentalists. They’re not like the Amish where they don’t use technology or drive, they pretty much live in a modern society. But they’re pretty conservative. Life begins at conception, the women might only wear dresses or skirts, and no matter what they wear it has to be modest. Homosexuality is sodomy, the women don’t work a lot and have to submit to their husbands. But as far as Bobby can tell, their farm is fully up to modern standards, they aren’t living off the grid or anything, they just have a bunch of kids. The article said Lizbeth is twenty, and she has a couple older siblings living at home.”

“They still live at home?” Dean asked in disbelief, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Dude. You could argue that you lived with Dad until you were twenty-six.” Dean flipped him off. “Anyways, that’s pretty common, I guess. I don’t know, they just…do everything by the Book.”

Dean hummed deep in his throat, that thoughtful-but-disapproving hum. “How do you know all this?” Sam opened his mouth to answer, but Dean just cut him off, saying, “But how do you know anything? You got a whole set of encyclopedias up there.” Dean paused for a beat, and Sam could feel another question coming. “So, you’re Christian, right?”

Sam startled. That hadn’t been quite where he’d been expecting this conversation to go. “Uh. I don’t know. I guess I never really thought to label it.”

“But you pray.”

“Yeah, so?”

Dean shrugged. “So, Christians pray.”

“So do people in other faiths. I don’t know, Dean, I just…I don’t know. I pray because it’s a way to…to process my thoughts, ya know, and it’s nice to think somebody is listening. Right?”

Dean had to bite back something nasty. Had to stop himself from saying something along the lines of why any sort of God would want to listen to a freak like his brother, who seemed to be doing everything in his power to go _against _God. Not that Dean was exactly in God’s corner, no matter if the angels wanted him or not for whatever bullshit they had planned, but at least…ugh. Yeah. It was really the irony of all ironies, but that was Sam for ya. He was just about the nicest, most sincere guy you’d ever meet in your life – if you ever really got to know him, that is. But he’s infected with demon blood, folks! Oh, it’s not like Dean was a saint. He wasn’t sure he wasn’t going to Hell anyways without the deal, no matter how many people he’d saved over the years. But it wasn’t like he was gallivanting around with that demon whore.

Sam didn’t make sense to him sometimes. He wasn’t some religious nut, but he still thought God was listening to him? To any of them? 

Sounded like a pipe dream.

xXx

There wasn’t much to be said of Pearl, Mississippi, except that it was right outside of Jackson. Didn’t have a lot going for it, which was sort of the best place for cases to happen. Sleepy towns like this didn’t think to question whether or not Sam and Dean were actually feds – just wanted to know why they were there in the first place. Well, a river of blood would catch anyone’s attention.

Dressed in their Feeb finery, Dean double-parked the Impala (side note: Dean may have been able to handle anything on four wheels, like some sort of racecar or stunt driver, but he was not safe for civilian roads, and he was a total jackass when it came to “protecting” his precious black beauty of a metallicar. Moving on….) and they got out and hustled up the steps to the sheriff’s office. Good a place as any to start their investigation. The body – bodies, if you want to include the poor puppy – had already been laid to rest, and the brothers weren’t about to exhume a body just to do an autopsy. Just get the report. 

But the sheriff’s office wasn’t all that much help, it turned out.

“You might have better luck talkin’ to the folks down at the paper,” the sheriff told them, and Dean raised an eyebrow.

“And why might that be?”

Dean did this thing whenever they went to work down south, or they were with country folk – he’d sort of adopt, or maybe just slip into, this drawl. It was pretty natural-sounding, even to Sam’s ears, and got people to trust him and look at him as if he belonged, was one of them, but it still sounded off to the trained ear. 

The sheriff hemmed and hawed some, because good-ol’, down-to-earth southern sheriffs didn’t hesitate – they hemmed and hawed. “Look, the Martin family…they’re good folk.”

“But…?” Dean drawled, expectant. The sheriff sighed.

“Look, I’m a Christian. Most of the people in these parts is, too. It’s just how it is. But the Martins are a bit Old Testament.”

“How so?” Sam asked. From the description of Bobby’s research he’d given Sam over the phone, the Martin family was still pretty up-to-date.

“Well, I mean they drive cars and have electricity and have cellphones and all that, if that’s what you’re wonderin’. They’re just very by the book.” Okay, so far that lined up. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ I’m a fan of my daughter sleepin’ around before she settles down, or that I always like what she wears, but I don’t think she’s commitin’ a sin for wearin’ a mini skirt every now and then. Or that pornography was created by the Devil to tempt us. I don’t know, gentlemen. There’s just somethin’ about ‘em, nice as they are, that just don’t sit right.”

The sheriff was clearly the kind of guy to give it to you straight. “But how does that affect their credibility?” Sam asked, and the sheriff laughed.

“Boy, I don’t know _what _that girl saw, but that story was somethin’ else. River of blood? Prolly clay, or comin’ from the dog. The thing had been sliced open tip to tail. If she wants to take it as some sort of sign from God, so be it, but that don’t help us. Daniel Martin drowned, plain and simple. Hit his head and fell in. God only knows what happened to his poor ol’ dog, but that’s out of our jurisdiction. I’m tellin’ ya, fellas, ya might have more luck talkin’ to the people at the paper. They actually take this shit seriously.”

xXx

_The Daily Pearl_’s building was out on main street, and god, Dean loved small towns. They all followed the same rules. They all looked the same, even if their stories and secrets were different. But at least you always knew where everything was. Sam and Dean flashed their badges to the secretary, looked all business, and the girl took them back to the editor-in-chief, who deflated the second that he saw them.

“Lemme guess. You’re here about the Martin story.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look as they sat down opposite Burgess Thompson’s desk. “How’d ya guess?” Dean asked.

“You _kiddin’_ me?” Editor Thompson asked. He wagged a finger. “I oughta fire the woman who wrote that. We usually restrict her to housekeeping and gossip columns, but she’s been on my ass to let her do some ‘real’ reporting, and the first story outta the gate is this bullshit. Woman just wants attention – like they all do, lord knows – and figgered this was the best way to get it, I s’pose. But even if I didn’t like her reportin’ on it, that’s the girl’s story, and she ain’t deviatin’ from it. Lizbeth Martin swears up and down that she found her grandfather and his dog lying in a river of blood, and that he spoke to her before he collapsed. Now, the dog I could buy – the sheriff showed me pictures of the body, so I saw it myself – and I could _maybe _buy Dan Martin talkin’ to her before he collapsed, some sort of last act, dying words thing, but the whole thing together sounds like some sort of Dungeons and Dragons bullshit. Know what I mean?”

“We seem to be getting the feeling that people don’t exactly trust the Martin family in these parts,” Sam said. Editor Thompson nodded vigorously.

“They’re those evangelizin’ types,” he rolled his eyes. “I like to think of myself as a good Christian, but they take it to a whole ‘nother level. The family’s lived out on that farm for generations, since before the Civil War. Some people even say it’s haunted. Who knows,” he laughed sarcastically, “maybe they’re all possessed.”

Sam and Dean laughed along nervously. “Yeah,” Dean cleared his throat, “good one. Sheriff said Mr. Martin’s autopsy showed that he hit his head and drowned in the water, and the dog was certainly killed by _something_. Right?”

“Well, sure,” the editor shrugged, “but I don’t care. What I _care _about is people askin’ me just why in the hell I’d let my paper publish a pile of horse shit like that story. It’s sensationalism, is what it is, and I oughta fire that woman!”

Sam furrowed his brow, thinking. “And, uh…just who might this woman be?”

xXx

“Phoebe Smalls, reporter at large.”

Phoebe Smalls shook both men’s hands vigorously – didn’t want them to think she couldn’t keep up in a man’s world. They had crowded into her cramped office and flashed those shiny Federal Bureau of Investigation badges at her like they could scare her or something, but they couldn’t. No, Agents Sam Starkey and Dean Best had not had to deal with the likes of Phoebe Smalls before, and probably never would ever again. She was really something else, and people had been saying that about her for her whole entire life.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Smalls,” Sam greeted, trying to find just a bit of space to sit in the cramped room. Dean was grumpily seated on an old milk crate, and trying his best not to show how grumpy he was about it, which usually meant it was showing a little. Sam settled for perching on a somewhat high stool. “So. I bet you can guess why we’re here.”

The reporter looked between the two men, sizing them up. She couldn’t decide if how handsome they were made them trustworthy or not, but it was a federal offense to lie to special agents, so she decided she should probably do the lawful, right thing and just cooperate for once in her life. “You’re here about my story.”

“Bingo,” Dean grunted. “We’ve talked to the sheriff, we’ve talked to your editor-in-chief. They both think the story is a bunch of baloney, and they seem to think everybody else in town does, too.”

“They probably do. Do you?” Phoebe asked.

“We just go where they send us,” Sam pivoted. “How about you? You published the story. You must have gone out there and interviewed Lizbeth and her family. How’d you hear about it in the first place?”

Phoebe gave him a condescending smile – these big city folks just didn’t get it. “This is a small town, and everybody knows who the Martin family is, always knows their drama. It was well-known that Dan was getting on in years, practically senile. The police don’t wholly trust the family, either – there’s been incidents over the years, so they sent police out to investigate. And since we all know each other, word got out pretty fast. I just wanted to get the story for myself.”

“What other sorts of incidents?” Dean wondered. Phoebe leaned back in her desk chair and thought for a moment.

“Well, you’ve probably heard they’re a real religious type of family. I’m pretty sure they don’t vaccinate. If you look back through our archives, there’s all sorts of stories about them going back for generations, considerin’ they’ve been here since before the Civil War. Used to be more of a plantation than a farm, really. Let’s see…the mother’s had a couple miscarriages at home, a farmhand got his foot run over by one of their tractors…they’re always havin’ their Bible-thumpin’ friends over to worship, and there’ve been a few disputes.”

“What kind of disputes?” Sam asked, and Phoebe shrugged.

“Over the scripture, I guess. I don’t know, those sorts of people get real heated about how you interpret the Bible. Down to the nitty-gritty of it. Anywho, it ain’t like people in town don’t know that the family don’t stir up drama every now and then. They’re nice folk, but they’re not exactly anybody you want to be more than acquaintances with. All their friends are these folks from out of state who go to the same conferences they do. You know the ones, where they talk about what role everybody in the family should play according to God, and how rock music is the work of the Devil. Things like that.”

“But they’re living totally modern lifestyles, correct?”

“That’d be right. It’s not like their house looks like somethin’ out of the actual Civil War. It’s just that they’ve got all sorts of ideas about how things _should _be.”

“I guess we all do, though – right?” Dean asked.

“Well, sure,” Phoebe drawled, “but for example, my boss may be a sexist pig, but in the _modern _sense. Ya know? He may call me a bunch of stupid pet names all the time that he should be savin’ for his wife, but he doesn’t think I should just sit at home and pop out baby after baby after baby or listen to – well, I guess he _does _want me to listen to every word he says, but he wants everybody to do that, even the guys. He’s just sort of a dick. I don’t think he makes his wife do that – ya ask me, she’s the one wearing the pants in that relationship. Here’s the only place he feels he’s got any real power, prolly.”

Yeah, yeah, but they didn’t come here to talk about Burgess Thompson and his wife. Sam and Dean literally could not give less of a shit. Moving on. “So, you went and talked to Lizbeth and her family. You must have thought there was more to the story.”

Phoebe nodded slowly. “Coroner’s report says Daniel Martin died from a hit on the head that knocked him unconscious, and then he fell in the creek and drowned. The hit didn’t kill him – they suspect he died in the water. Nobody’s for sure about the dog, but Lizbeth found him that way, and the police and the local veterinarian even say the wound looked pretty intentional, so they think Daniel might have done it for whatever reason, but they couldn’t find a weapon on ‘im, so it’s really just a guess. Lizbeth appeared to be in shock after the incident – which is completely understandable – and she kept sayin’ that the creek had turned red with blood, and that her grandfather had spoken to her before he collapsed and died.”

“That’s what we keep hearing,” Dean sighed. “Everybody’s got the same thing to say about this.”

“Well, you _are_ federal agents – maybe you’ll get more out of her than I did.”

Sam rolled his lips. “You think there’s something different about this story from all the others.”

Phoebe barked a laugh. “Well, pardon my French, agent, but _duh_. The girl’s not changin’ her story. I think there’s somethin’ shady goin’ on out there, even if it is just some sort of elaborate scheme to cover up that they killed him.” She shrugged very casually, like she hadn’t just accused a whole family of murder. “You must think there’s somethin’ here, too, if you came all the way out here to look into it. Right?”

Well, Bobby certainly thought so, and considering he was their ‘main office’, they went wherever he told them to.

xXx

“So – whadda we think?”

Dean shrugged, running a finger around the rim of his water glass. “I dunno. Sounds like a bunch of small town gossip about a poor religious kook who went into shock and doesn’t know what else to say than what she thinks she saw.”

They were only a couple of the few patrons in the diner right now, but the service was still sort of slow, which was starting to get on Sam’s nerves. So was this case. He kind of had to agree with Dean; there really didn’t seem to be a whole lot here besides this poor girl finding her dead grandfather and his dead dog in a creek by her house. Of course her mind might conjure up something like that. 

“I still think we should go talk to her and her family,” Sam insisted, loosening his tie a bit. Dean had already thrown off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Maybe check for EMF, witchcraft, demon signs.”

“Could be a seal,” Dean suggested again.

“I sure as hell hope not.”

“Well, me, too,” Dean scoffed, “but that don’t mean I’m not gonna entertain the possibility. Honestly, I just hope nobody else dies.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathed out as their food _finally _came. “Me, too.”

xXx

The Martin farm was at the end of an old gravel road – well, the house was. The farm stretched on for acres all around them, up to the old rural road they’d come in on, and the farmhouse lay at the end of the gravel driveway. It was in the old style, but there had clearly been additions made to it over the years, fresh coatings of yellow paint and white trim, new windows, an updated porch. It wasn’t what Dean was expecting, that was for certain. He was expecting, like, that house in that one _X Files _episode – “Home.” That was it. This was not that, though.

Even more impressive than the house was the scenery. The farm stretched on for what seemed like forever and ever, to where the Earth met the sky, and the grass near the house was greener than you could imagine; imagine the greenest green, and a shade past that is how green that grass was. Walking up to that house, with the blue, blue sky full of puffy white clouds, it all felt like a good omen, all this beauty. There had been a creek running with blood here? A man and his dog had died here? It seemed impossible. How could they have died so horribly when the front porch had little rainbow pinwheels spinning in the breeze? It just didn’t seem possible.

“Place doesn’t exactly scream murder,” Dean mused as they jogged up the porch steps. He looked out behind him at the tree line near the house. The place was surrounded by them, it seemed, like they were cocooning the family and the farm from the rest of the world, keeping them in a sort of fortress. But that was probably overthinking things.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, I guess,” Sam shrugged, and _god_, that was a loaded statement. Nobody touched it. Both of them just left it alone. 

Sam knocked on the door, and in what seemed like an almost unnaturally fast amount of time – sort of a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of thing – the door was opening, like they had been expected and the Martin matriarch was waiting behind the door for them, like she was a golden retriever waiting for its master to get home. And this had to be Mrs. Martin; she had that very Mom-ish look about her. She had the white and red-checked apron on, her hair had clearly been set the night before so it could halo around her head in loose curls down to her shoulders, and she had definitely had eight babies – there was that sort of…softness about her. Mrs. Martin smiled at them, dimples and all.

“Afternoon, gentlemen!” She greeted. She probably assumed they were door-to-door vacuum salesmen, or maybe encyclopedias. “What can I do for ya?”

Her smile faltered a bit when the boys held up their badges. “Ma’am, I’m Agent Starkey, and this is my partner, Agent Best,” Sam introduced. “We’re here to look into the incident that occurred on your property concerning your father-in-law last week. May we come in?”

Mrs. Martin stared a moment longer at their badges before recovering and ushering them inside her home, which was possibly even more perfect and immaculate-looking than it was outside, the exterior of the house being juxtaposed with the beauty of the natural world around them. But for as clean as it was inside, the second thing you noticed about it – if it hadn’t been the first – was the wall of crosses hung up on the wall opposite the front door. Which was…really…something. Dean blinked a couple of times, like maybe he was just dizzy and there was maybe just the one or two up there and his eyesight had gone all wonky, but nope, they were all still there. There was a piece on a side table that read, “_When life gets too hard to stand…KNEEL”_, and another that read, “_I still remember the days WE PRAYED for the things we have today._” Oh, and a couple of framed portraits of George Bush and Jesus on the mantle, the eyes on both of which seemed to follow you around the room, and Sam had to wonder if they would switch out Bush for Obama in a couple months. Otherwise, the place looked _totally _normal!

“Feel free to take a seat, agents,” Mrs. Martin said, gesturing to the overstuffed couch, complete with decorative pillows that you probably weren’t supposed to lean against. “Can I get you anything to drink? Lemonade? Water?”

“No, thank you,” Sam politely refused as they sat. Mrs. Martin sat down opposite them, doing her best to look completely at ease with the situation.

“Mrs. Martin,” Dean began, folding his hands together and resting his elbows on his thighs, “are you the only one at home right now?”

She pointed to the staircase. “A few of my other children are here. I’m afraid my husband is out working checking on the fields, and I don’t know how long he’ll be.”

“Would you mind bringing your children down here?” Sam asked, and Mrs. Martin nodded and scurried off upstairs to get them – she probably wasn’t the type to scream for her kids to come downstairs.

“You feelin’ the love?” Dean murmured quietly to Sam, gesturing to the décor. Sam huffed a laugh.

“Or the fear of God, more like it.”

“This place is already giving me the jeebs,” Dean muttered, and yeah, Sam kinda had to agree. One of their babysitters growing up had a bunch of crosses around her house, too, but she’d never come across as that overtly religious, no more than anyone else, so now Sam was wondering what the fuck that had been all about. Did some people just think crosses were good wall décor? Who even knew.

Mrs. Martin came back downstairs and introduced her three daughters, Maryann, Lizbeth, and Ruth. Neither brother could tell if the daughters favored their mother so strongly because Mrs. Martin’s genetics game was that strong, or if it had something to do with the long hair that looked as if it hadn’t been cut in a while, or their modern peasant girl look. Maryann was apparently the oldest, and married last year at the age of twenty-four, a fact of which she was extremely proud of – her mother as well, it seemed. Ruth was the youngest of all the children at twelve, had that weird perkiness all twelve-year-olds do, braces, admitted to loving horses completely unprovoked. 

Then there was Lizbeth.

“Lizbeth found my father-in-law, unfortunately, and his dog, Titan,” Mrs. Martin recounted sadly, putting a hand over Lizbeth’s. Lizbeth just looked at the ground. She seemed incredibly shy and drawn inward, more so than her mother or sisters. 

“We’re sorry to hear that,” Sam said, watching Lizbeth. “So…you were the only witness?” Lizbeth glanced up and wordlessly nodded her head. Sam glanced over at his brother, who shrugged helplessly – getting this girl to talk was going to be trying, to say the least.

Dean cleared his throat. “Mrs. Martin, how about you and, uh, Maryann show me around, maybe retrace your steps from the night your grandfather disappeared for me.”

“Of course, agent,” Maryann grinned. Smiling in the face of adversity. She and her mother stood, and Dean followed them outside. Before he went out the door, Dean threw a look over his shoulder and nodded his head to Lizbeth; the message was clear – get her to talk. 

xXx

“Looks like rain.”

It really did all of a sudden. When they’d pulled up, the skies had been clear. Now, they were a dark grey – was this what the weather was like in Mississippi in the fall? Dean wished he’d thought to bring an umbrella before reminding himself that the day had been beautiful just twenty minutes ago. Mrs. Martin – whose first name he still hadn’t learned yet, which Dean noted was sort of weird – and Maryann both looked up at the sky and seemed to make note of it, but didn’t say anything about it. 

“My sister found them in the creek,” Maryann told him, moving right past his comment, speaking with a very certain…tone, one Dean recognized all too well – that smug, _I-know-your-secret _tone. She and her mother deftly maneuvered the gap in the tree line to lead Dean back to the scene of the crime, even in their knee-length pencil skirts. Mrs. Martin hadn’t bothered to take off her apron, as if she had it on perpetually. “She’s always hiding back here. She thinks we don’t know, but we do.”

Maryann seemed to be a bit of a – oh, what’s the word…a _jackas_s.

“What does she do back here?” Dean asked.

Maryann shrugged. “Read, pray. She brings her Bible out here a lot, so that’s my guess.”

Dean screwed up his face. “Is it wrong for her to do that?”

Maryann stopped in her tracks and spun on her heels to face Dean. “No, but it is a sin to lie, Agent Best. To be dishonest. God does not look kindly upon the deceitful.”

Who did this chick think she _was? _God Himself? The absolute venom, the conviction in her voice would have been enough to tip Dean off that something was going on here. Who even cared if it was supernatural anymore or not – at the very least, there was some serious brainwashing going on. And what about what Lizbeth was doing back here was deceitful? This was all too confusing. Maryann held his gaze for what felt like an eternity, Dean not knowing quite what to say in return. Sure, he could tell her a thing or two about God. How he knew angels, what they were _really _like. But they wouldn’t listen or care. They knew what they thought they knew, and being a stubborn jackass himself, he knew it would be impossible to sway them.

Mrs. Martin, who had become very uncomfortable with this conversation, decided to step in. “We all have our crosses to bear, Maryann.”

“Yes, but we’re not all as selfish as she is,” Maryann spat, and then she moved on, pointing at the creek. “She said the whole thing was slick with blood. Can you believe something like that, agent?”

“Well, I don’t – “

“She’d been looking after him,” Mrs. Martin added, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “Grandpa Dan, he was getting on in years. It was just one of the ways she’s been helping around the house. The boys and their father and Joshua – Maryann’s husband – they usually work the farm, and we help around the house. It’s just how we split up the duties around here.”

“Alright,” Dean drawled. That sounded about what he expected. Well, it sounded kinda out of the fifties, if you asked him, but these religious types…. “And what else did she see?”

xXx

“Titan was already dead by the time I found him. He had been split open completely by something. And then I started to notice that the creek had become warm and bloody, and then our grandfather was standing in front of me, several feet away so I could really only make out his eyes, and he said, ‘this is the second of death.’”

“Revelation 21:8,” Ruth provided. “’But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars – they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second of death.’”

Lizbeth nodded along. She still struggled to even make eye contact with Sam for longer than a few seconds, but at least she was talking now. These girls clearly had an encyclopedic knowledge of the scriptures, almost scarily so. And the longer Sam sat in this house, the more he felt that it was _sticking _to him. Like people would be able to sense he’d spent his afternoon with a bunch of Bible-thumpers well into the evening. “What was your grandfather like?” Sam asked.

“He was a good man,” Lizbeth shrugged. “It was awful, the way he died, but he was slowly going. The Lord was ready to call him home. He’d done his work here. He helped maintain this farm for fifty or so years. I didn’t mind taking care of him. He had been kind to us our whole lives, and he’d worked hard to serve us and God, so he deserved being looked after.” She took a long, deep breath through her nose. Lizbeth had her hands clenched so tightly they were shaking. “I know what I saw, Agent.”

Sam nodded. He felt bad for this girl – she had clearly been shaken up. “I believe you, Lizbeth.”

And he really did. He’d seen enough weird stuff in his life to really, truly believe her. When he said that, a weight seemed to be lifted off the girl’s shoulders, and she finally looked up and was able to hold his gaze for a little while. “You do?” She asked, voice small and hopeful. Sam nodded.

“I do. You saw what you saw. And you said you were taking care of him, right?” Lizbeth nodded. “You probably knew him better than anybody did lately. If that’s what you saw, that’s what you saw. I really do believe you, Lizbeth.”

Both girls looked extremely relieved. “Thank you, Agent Starkey,” Lizbeth said with an embarrassed smile, a nervous laugh. “I was starting to think I was crazy – Ruth was the only one who believed me.”

Sam returned the small smile. “You’re not crazy, either of you.”

There was a beat of silence where the sisters just looked at each other, giddy. Sam remembered that while Ruth was twelve, Lizbeth was nineteen. She seemed much too innocent for her age, but maybe his sense of innocence was skewed. Maybe more nineteen-year-olds were like this than he thought because he’d certainly lost his by that age. Lizbeth took a deep breath. “Agent, may I ask _you _something?”

Sam sort of laughed – the idea seemed to almost tickle her, getting to ask a question of her own. But there was something sad about that, too, like she was expected to do as she was told, never to question anything about her life. Maybe this had been the first time she’d questioned _anything _– her family, maybe even her faith. “Shoot.”

“Do you believe in God, Agent Starkey?”

Sam inhaled sharply. Part of him had been expecting that question – these religious types, you know – but the question was a difficult one to answer these days because he _did _believe in God…it was just that he wasn’t sure what kind of God he believed Him to be. “Yes. I do,” he settled on saying.

Lizbeth turned a bit shy again. “I know this will sound crazy, too, but don’t you think God tries to communicate with us?” Sam nodded. “I don’t know exactly how our grandfather died, all I know is that after he said that, he collapsed into the river, and when I approached his body, it was like he’d been there for ages, his body bloated and pale. But like you said, what I saw was what I saw, and I think God was trying to tell me something.”

“Like a vision, maybe,” Sam supplied. Lizbeth shrugged.

“Maybe,” she whispered.

Sam was about to go along with this line of questioning when there was a sudden roll of thunder, and Dean, Mrs. Martin, and Maryann coming through the front door, probably only seconds away from getting soaked as the rain looked as if it could start any minute now. Sam cleared his throat. “Agent?”

“Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Taylor showed me where the incident happened. Lizbeth, have you been back since that night?” Dean asked. Lizbeth shook her head.

“No, sir. I don’t think I could.”

Mrs. Martin came over and put a comforting hand on Lizbeth’s shoulder, but it didn’t seem to do much for her. “The Lord will calm her heart, in His own good time,” she said, and everybody nodded. Well, except Sam and Dean, who just sort of awkwardly smiled these tight smiles because what the fuck were they supposed to say to that. “Lizbeth, why don’t you show them to the door, make sure they get to their car without gettin’ soaked?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dean thought that was sort of shitty, that her mom was making the daughter who had witnessed all this, was getting made fun of by everybody in town, show them to the fucking door. It felt like a petty little thing, a punishment for embarrassing the family, but Dean may have been reading into it a little too much. 

Funny, though – that’s what everybody else in the room was thinking, too. It’s just that some of them were okay with it.

xXx

Lizbeth shut the door, then watched the agents through the window as they walked back to their big black car, the one with the shorter hair gesticulating wildly as the tall one listened. There was something about the taller agent that Lizbeth liked. He was kind, like a gentle giant, and had spoken to her softly, and seemed to really believe her story. Both men seemed to believe her, but Agent Starkey had such an agreeable demeanor. These may just be stirrings, Lizbeth realized, and she tried to push them down. He didn’t really look much older than she did, even if he seemed that way, and he had kind eyes, and even though she had never really seen a man with hair that long, it suited him, wavy and chestnut-colored. The mole by his nose was cute, too. But thinking about those things would get her nowhere; Agent Starkey was here working, investigating the incident involving her family, and could maybe even get to the bottom of what happened to her grandfather – but he wouldn’t be here forever. And it was selfish of her to let a silly crush overtake her mind – lustful, even – when someone who would be here for so brief a time that any fabricated relationship Lizbeth could imagine up was an illusion, an impossibility, and therefore keeping her thoughts from her future husband. 

Oh, but she could only pray that man would be a fraction as sweet as Agent Starkey.

“Lizbeth!”

Lizbeth spun around and saw Maryann standing behind her with her arms crossed over her chest, a questioning look on her face. “What?” Lizbeth breathed.

“Were you watching them?” Maryann asked knowingly, and it was perfect timing that the sun glinted off Maryann’s engagement ring, as if to remind Lizbeth that her lust for Agent Starkey was not only taking her mind off her future husband, but the Lord as well. Lizbeth sighed.

“Not exactly,” she tried to explain. “I’m just…well, don’t you think it’s a bit odd that they felt they had to come all the way out her and interview us?”

Maryann lifted her nose in the air just slightly. “Well, sure, but they only came out here because of the crazy story you told to the papers. You drew attention to the whole thing. Grandpa just drowned, Lizbeth. He was old and losing his mind. And who knows what happened to Titan, but I’m sure all that blood you saw was what was coming from his body, and then you…went into shock, or something.”

“Or maybe it was God showing me something,” Lizbeth argued. “If it wasn’t really Grandpa who spoke to me, maybe it was God.”

Maryann laughed outright. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in the Lord speaking through intermediaries – of course He did, He did it all the time – but Maryann doubted very much that God had been speaking to Lizbeth just then. God dictated the direction each of our lives took, but that didn’t mean He had been sending her some sort of message, speaking to her, telling her something only _she _was to know. Why would _Lizbeth_, of all people, be getting messages from God? It was laughable! 

Growing up, Maryann had always made sure to do everything just right, did everything to please God, just like the Bible told them to do. Do all things for the glory of God. It wasn’t easy, but she had done it. Her whole life, she’d dedicated herself to dressing modestly, staying pure of heart and body and mind, waiting to give herself up until God had led her husband to her. She’d read and studied God’s Word over and over and _over_. She’s submitted to her husband, honored and obeyed her parents. She’d gone on missions. She’d lead Bible studies. She mentored young women and sought out mentorship from older Godly women to help her with her struggles, just as Titus said to do. She had confessed all her sins as they came to her, all her struggles. She had trusted God with every step of her life – she was a _good _Christian. And so was Lizbeth, sure, but deep down, Maryann knew there lived within her a doubt, a doubt in the Lord God. She sometimes looked to the worldly culture, reading all sorts of secular literature that was bound to give a girl like her all sorts of ideas. Lizbeth had always had more questions than her brothers and sisters growing up. A truly Godly woman didn’t need to ask questions – she trusted everything, _everything, _to God.

That’s what Maryann had done.

And if it turned out that _Lizbeth _was the one God had chosen to speak to? Well! Wouldn’t that just be _perfect?_

xXx

“So….”

“So.”

The brothers got to the end of the walkway and turned back to look at the house, full of happy Christian soldiers. They hadn’t even met the whole family, either. Sam sighed. “What’re we thinkin’?”

They kept making their way to the Impala, hoping to find a motel before this rain started up – every few seconds, thunder would rumble, so they were on the clock. Dean slid into the driver’s seat and threw up his hands. “Man, I don’t fuckin’ know. Did you see anything weird in the house?”

“Besides all the Christian-nouveau décor? Not much. Nothing to suggest anything supernatural. How about you? Were you able to get any reads on the EMF?”

That had been tricky, hiding and explaining that away with Mrs. Martin and Maryann in tow, but Dean had told them that the little EMF meter actually just looked for electrical power sources. Who knows? Maybe Grandpa Dan had tripped on a wire! Who knows?!? Right, Maryann? _Right? _But Dean shook his head. “Nothin’. Which is surprising, considering the history of the place.”

Dean went to turn the key, get this engine roaring and roll the hell on out of here, but the Impala wouldn’t start. This wasn’t exactly too unusual – she was pretty old, after all. She was a beauty for her age, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t starting to feel the effects. Dean was always patient with his baby, but after a few more tries and Sam’s prolonged annoyed stare, Dean huffed.

“Wait here,” he grumbled, and threw the door open and got under the hood.

Off came Dean’s suit jacket once again, up his sleeves were rolled, and goddammit, this suit was brand spankin’ new, why did this have to be happening _now? _He was going to get rained on. His suit was going to get oily and wet and that would be it for it. He motioned for Sam to slide over into the driver’s seat so he could wait for further instructions as Dean tinkered. A few times he had Sam try to start the car, but still nothing, just that frustrating sound of the engine whirring and giving out.

“Well, _shit_,” Dean grumbled, slamming down the hood. But then he thought better of it, and patted the car in apology. He climbed into the passenger seat and sighed. Sam bit his lip, thinking. “Far as I can tell, there is nothing wrong with this car – no cut brake lines, nothing wrong with the carburetor, nothin’.”

“Think we could get a tow?”

“Worth a shot.”

“We’d have to, uh, go back inside and ask to look at a phonebook. And to use their landline, because, uh….” Sam waved his cellphone back and forth sheepishly. “I’m not getting any service. And I bet you aren’t either.”

Oh, no. Oh, no no no no no no _no_. This could not be happening. This could not be happening! Dean didn’t want to spend any more time here on this farm, with this family, and he sure as hell didn’t want to go back in there, tail between his legs, and ask to use their landline so they could get a tow out of here. Sure, maybe it wasn’t the worst interview they had ever conducted, but this place was seriously giving Dean the creeps for a reason he could quite put his finger on.

No. No, he could put his finger on it. It was that they had never learned Mrs. Martin’s name. It was how immaculate the whole place was. It was that wall of crosses. It was the family portrait they had hanging over the fireplace, all of them with perfect, painted-on smiles and wearing matching outfits assigned by gender, all neo-puritan-like. It was that Mrs. Martin had never taken off her apron, and all these girls had been wearing those knee-length skirts with fucking _T-shirts_, and no, Dean doesn’t give a shit what people wear, and he’s not trying to sound like a creep here, but wasn’t that some sort of fashion faux-pas? They hadn’t even met the men of the house. And now, there was a gathering storm, and the car inexplicably wouldn’t start, and they were fucking trapped here. Trapped! Trapped like mice or rats or whatever it was that got trapped. 

There was something going on here. There was. It was just a matter of finding out who or what exactly the monster was.

“Alright,” Dean sighed. “Let’s…let’s head back in, then.”

It was just their luck that just as Sam raised a hand to knock on the front door once again, there was a crack of thunder and a streak of lightning, and as this family was likely wont to put it, the heavens opened up and the torrential downpour they had been waiting for began. Fucking…perfect. Sam knocked probably a little louder than he would have usually, with a real sense of urgency, and Dean felt himself getting nervous for some reason, and he started loosening his tie. How had they only been in this town for one day? It felt as if something was about to happen, and Sam and Dean were barely treading water here, trying to figure out if any of this was real or not.

The door was finally unlocked, and it was Lizbeth this time who opened the door, almost looking surprised to see them again so soon, even though they had never left to begin with. “Agents,” she breathed. “What are you still doing here?”

“Car won’t start,” Dean said shortly. “And we’re not getting any cell service. May we use your phone?”

“We need to call for a tow,” Sam further explained, more patient and gentle with the girl. “We can’t find out what’s wrong with the car, and Agent Best probably doesn’t want to get back under the hood in this rain. Do you mind if we come back in?”

Lizbeth nodded her head. A part of her was glad that the Agents were still here, especially Agent Starkey, but she had a bad feeling. She felt the sudden urge to pray; that would happen to her sometimes, especially when it seemed like things were about to go awry, like they did now, and like they had the night her grandfather had died. 

“The phone’s in the kitchen,” she said. “We were all in there getting ready to make dinner, but we won’t mind.” Lizbeth led Sam and Dean into the kitchen, where Mrs. Martin, Maryann, and Ruth were all busy working on peeling potatoes, cleaning beans, and checking on something in the oven. Perfect domestic scene, and they all looked up at the same time when they came into the room.

“Agents!” Mrs. Martin greeted a bit shakily. “Back so soon?”

“Afraid so,” Sam said. “Our car won’t start, and there’s no cell service, so we need to borrow your phone. Dean, do you want - ”

Dean was about to make a very rash decision – something he did a lot, but he was feeling on-edge, and something needed to be done, soon – actually, as soon as humanly possible. He’d already had enough, and this case was going nowhere fast. “Mrs. Martin, I’m afraid you and your family are all now under investigation for the murder of Daniel Martin.” Dean’s voice boomed in the quiet of the pristine little country kitchen, and Mrs. Martin gasped, putting a hand to her heart and clutching her chest. Lizbeth looked as if she was about to cry, and young Ruth just looked stunned. Maryann, however, looked unfazed. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam hissed in his ear. “Are you insane?”

“Had to do something,” Dean whispered back. Maryann stood up.

“Actually, I’m glad you’re back, Agent Best. I wanted to tell you something. May we speak in private?”

Dean looked to Sam, who raised an eyebrow. Dean shrugged, gestured to the phone. “That’s fine, Maryann,” Sam said, still not taking his eyes off Dean. “I’ll stay here with the rest of them and call the tow company. Mrs. Martin, I hope your husband and boys are back soon – they’ll need to be questioned.”

Mrs. Martin wordlessly nodded her head, and Maryann led Dean out of the kitchen.

xXx

“What is it you wanted to tell me?”

Upstairs in the bedroom that Lizbeth and Ruth shared now that Maryann had moved out to live with her husband, the sounds of the storm were amplified further. There was a tree knocking against the window as the wind whipped it against the side of the house, and the rain was less of a pitter-patter than it was just an absolute driving, splintering sheet of continuous downpour. It had really picked up in the few minutes since it had started, and Dean hoped that meant it would be over sooner than later – you know how these concentrated storm cells are.

The girls’ room was a study in bright pink and floral decorations. Dean could see a twelve-year-old living here, but the fact that one of their grown daughters, and Maryann until just recently, had been going to bed in a room that was painted bubblegum pink and had pictures of horses hanging on the wall just didn’t sit right. Dean shuddered to think about what the sons’ living conditions were. God, what if their rooms were painted that bright royal blue and decorated with firetrucks and rocket ships? It’s like you didn’t even become an adult in this house until you got married, and even then it was questionable. Dean had to sit on one of the overstuffed beds, and something about that made him feel like both a pervert and a fraud. Maryann sat opposite him on the other bed.

“I’m more sure about telling you this now that it’s a murder investigation,” Maryann began. “Agent, I think there’s reason to believe my sister killed my grandfather.”

Dean’s heart fell into his stomach. If they had stumbled into a real-life murder investigation instead of having to deal with, say, your run-of-the-mill demon possession, then Dean was _not _in the mood, and probably this would be a good time to call the cops and hit the road. But, oh, wait! Their _car wouldn’t fucking start_. A flash of lightning in the window illuminated Maryann’s face half in light, half in darkness. Dean swallowed. “You really think your sister is capable of murder?”

“Of this murder,” Maryann said confidently. Dean nodded very slowly. 

“And…what led you to believe that?”

Maryann gave a long-suffering sigh, as if he was stupid to even ask such a question. Dean kinda got that a lot. “My mother told you earlier that Lizbeth had been looking after our grandfather lately. I’ve obviously not been around as much since I moved in with my husband.” Swear to God, if Maryann mentioned one more time that she was married, Dean. Was going. To scream. “Some of our siblings are a little young, and Daddy is busy with the farm and Mama with the house, so Lizbeth had taken charge. Our grandfather was a good, Godly man his whole life. Gettin’ old is what started to turn him difficult and ornery. Things he used to do every day of his life, like praying, got lost. All he knew to do for himself anymore was walk that dog. It was frustrating, and I think Lizbeth was getting overwhelmed with caring for him. She’s always been a bit weaker in constitution, and I can’t help but wonder…since he died right near her little hiding spot….”

Maryann trailed off and looked up coyly at Dean, demurely shrugging her shoulders. Dean got the message.

xXx

“….yes, I understand. No, no, it’s all right. Yeah, this weather is awful, don’t…obviously don’t drive. Maybe once the storm clears up? Okay, great. Yep, you heard right. The Martin farm. Awesome, thank you.”

Sam hung up the kitchen phone and slumped over with a heavy sigh. It was fair that the tow truck guy didn’t want to drive all the way out here from town just to tow a couple strangers’ ride in this storm. He’d been nice about it – small town folks often were – but it was still frustrating. And now Dean had pulled his fake-Feeb crap, gotten all into character with his fake job, and had opened up a whole new can of worms by declaring this a murder investigation. That was freaking…awesome. 

Sam needed to call Bobby.

“Mrs. Martin?”

As soon as Sam had gotten on the phone and Maryann had gone upstairs with Dean, the rest of the Martin women had gone back to preparing dinner – a woman’s place was in the kitchen, after all. Yeah, it was still 1955. Okay. She looked up, this time not bothering with a smile, which Sam was actually somehow grateful for. “Yes?”

“I need to call my supervisor at the main office. Do you have a phone that’s maybe in a more…private spot?” Mrs. Martin hesitated. “It’s urgent.”

With a defeated slump of the shoulders, Mrs. Martin nodded and led him downstairs. Sam hadn’t even noticed that the house had a door leading down to a basement, and he wished he could say that the basement was the clue they needed, that it was unfinished and dark and had exposed leaky pipes, and probably a huge altar or a dead body or something, but that wasn’t the case. It was perfectly finished and sunshiny through the storm, and covered in more God crap. Mrs. Martin showed him to her husband’s office, if you could call it that, and left him alone as Sam sat down at the desk and dialed Bobby’s number, hoping to God (yes, God, because it seemed appropriate, even in this house of sunshiny horrors) that it would go through.

And thank _God_, it did.

“_Who is this?_”

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. “Bobby, thank God.”

“_Sam? That you?_”

“Yes. Bobby, we’re checking out that case in Pearl, with the river of blood and the sliced-open dog?”

“_Okay, good.”_

“We have no idea what’s going on,” Sam admitted. “Everybody keeps telling us the same damn thing. The all think the girl was just in shock, and we haven’t found a trace of EMF, or a witch’s altar, or signs of a demonic presence, nothing. The angels haven’t shown up, so bets probably off for it being a seal. The best we can do is take this girl’s word – she swears up and down that what she saw was real.”

_“D’you have any real reason not to believe her?_”

Sam sighed. “I dunno. I can’t quite explain it, but…she seems trustworthy to me. She’s just so…sincere. The rest of the family’s so fake, you know? All the perky smiles and yellow paint. Like they have to force it.”

_“Local papers have a bunch of stories about them from over the years. You said no EMF?” _Sam confirmed that. “_Weird, cuz the family’s never believed in vaccination or anything, only goes to the hospital for the serious stuff. And things were pretty gruesome there when it used to be a platantion, if you get my drift. But if there ain’t any ghosts, there ain’t any ghosts. The place is huge – have you checked any of the barns, maybe?”_

“Didn’t get a chance. It’s been raining like crazy.”

_“Looks like you’re gonna have to suck it and put on yer goulashes and rain slicker, boy, because somethin’ happened there, and you and your brother need to get to the bottom of it.”_

“But that’s just the thing!” Sam whisper-cried, not wanting to arouse suspicion. “What if it was just shock? Or murder? Dean’s got the whole place on lockdown and wants to question everybody, but none of the men in the family have shown up yet.”

_“Just cover all your bases, Sam. Once you rule out anything unnatural, you can go from there. Just take a deep breath and do what you know to do.”_

Sam huffed. “Yeah, okay, Yoda.”

“_Shut up. Call when ya can.”_

They hung up, and Sam slumped down and rested his head in his hands, and stared at the big wooden cross on the opposite wall. There was a little window near the ceiling above Sam’s head, letting in just a bit of light through the storm into the dimly lit room. Every now and then, lightning would flash and illuminate the wall, casting a cross-like shadow against it, silhouettes of raindrops on the windowpanes rolling down the wall like tears. Sam sighed and finally got up and left the office, making sure to close the door behind him. Just as he was about to turn his back, he heard a slow creaking coming down the stairs into the basement, and on instinct, put his hand to his waistband where his gun was, but when he turned around, it was just his brother, and they both had the same thought at the same time and said the exact same thing:

“Dude, we need to talk.”

xXx

“Don’t you think it’s kinda weird to just sorta linger in their basement?”

It sure felt weird to Sam, especially since just a few moments ago, there had been a huge crack of lightning and thunder, and then the lights went out. Someone upstairs screamed – probably Ruth – but it was more like a startled yelp than a scream, so they just left it alone. Now they were sitting on the floor, criss-cross like a couple of kindergarteners, and Dean had flicked open his Zippo, and the whole thing just made Sam feel like an idiot for whatever reason. 

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s the only place we can get any privacy. I swear, these people have eyes in the back of their heads.” Dean wagged a finger. “Big Brother’s always watching, Sammy.” Then it was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “Anyways, I just got done talking to Maryann.”

“And?”

Dean rolled his lips. “She seems to think Lizbeth made up the whole thing and that she did it. That she killed their grandfather.”

Sam took a deep breath and let it out slow. “O-kay,” he drawled, rubbing the back of his neck, “so you think this really is just a murder investigation.”

“I still don’t quite know what to think, but I know this complicates things.”

“Well, I was able to get through to Bobby, and he thinks we should check out the barn. Cuz, you know, we’re on a farm. They probably have one of those.”

“Check it out for what?”

Sam shrugged in disbelief – did he really just ask him that? “Dude, anything that seems amiss. C’mon, I know you’re not _that _off your game.” 

But then something occurred to Sam. Something that Sam hadn’t really bothered to consider himself, not for more than a fleeting moment. Dean seemed to really think that maybe Maryann was telling the truth – that Lizbeth really had killed their grandfather, just out of spite, just because she was getting sick of taking care of him. Sam believed Lizbeth when she had told him her story. “You think she did it,” Sam said. “You think Lizbeth really killed them.”

“Like I said, I don’t know!” Dean hissed. “But the idea of hanging around the house of a Bible-thumpin’ murderer – or a whole _family _of Bible-thumpin’ murderers – is kinda freaking me out!”

“You kill monsters for a living. You do realize that, right?” Dean just shook his head – Sam clearly wasn’t getting the point. “Look, I know it’s gonna suck, but Bobby’s right - we should go check out the barn. And if we can’t find anything, maybe we can….” Sam shrugged and huffed a laugh, “Maybe we can borrow one of their Bibles and see if Lizbeth’s story matches up with anything in there. She says the last thing her grandfather said to her was from Revelation 21:8.” Sam closed his eyes, focusing on remembering the passage as he began to recite. “’But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars – they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second of death.’”

Dean remembered Maryann accusing Lizbeth of being a liar earlier out by the creek. And now she was accusing her of being a murderer, too. “Was Grandpa Dan any of those things?” Dean asked.

Sam let out a small sigh. “I don’t know. But I think we can find out. Do we split up again? One of us questions the family about Dan, the other one heads out to the barn?”

Dean thought for a moment. On the one hand, Maryann seemed to trust Dean with this suspicion, even if she didn’t seem to like him; on the other, Lizbeth seemed to trust Sam, and he had gotten her to talk to him earlier. “Stay and talk to Lizbeth,” he finally decided. “She seems to be willing to talk to you. I’ll head out to the barn.” He eyed his brother. “You really believe her?”

“Yeah. I do, Dean. And it’s not just because I’m some Bible-thumper, either, so don’t say anything about it. This has nothing to do with _God._”

Fair enough – Dean would leave it for now. Armed and ready with a plan, the brothers headed back upstairs, only to find the entire family – yes, the _entire _Martin family, even The Men™, dripping wet as they were – huddled together in the kitchen. Mrs. Martin hadn’t stopped working on dinner. This was getting ridiculous. Mr. Martin stood as Sam and Dean came into the kitchen, one of those squirrely-looking fellas whose southern accent you could hear before he even opened his mouth. He held out his hand for Sam and Dean to shake, and they did, and it felt sorta slimy. Hopefully just because it was wet. Dean didn’t want to think about where those hands had been.

“Gentlemen,” he said gruffly. “Glad y’all’re here.”

_He was? _The boys asked each other silently. Sam rolled right over it. “Right. Mr. Martin, you and your family are going to stay here with me for further questioning. My partner Agent Best is going to investigate the grounds further, and would appreciate it if you gave him access to your barn.”

“In this weather?” Mrs. Martin asked pleasantly – too pleasantly, honestly. This wasn’t a social call. “You’ll get soaked!”

“I need access to your barn,” Dean repeated. “Immediately.”

The dynamic in the family had really shifted now that Mr. Martin and their sons were here. None of the children, even the grown ones, were speaking. Their parents had complete control of the conversation, though one of the boys – of which there were five, and Sam thought fleetingly that Mr. Martin was probably glad for that – seemed to want to talk, but kept thinking better of it. “It’s about five hundred feet if you go out the back door. If I was you, I wouldn’t even bother with an umbrella or nothin’ – storm of biblical proportions.”

Dean waved a hand – yeah, yeah, raining to beat the band; Noah, we might need ya to build another ark. He needed to stop by the Impala and grab the EMF meter, so he jogged out the front door, instantly getting soaked. Mr. Martin had at least been right about that – storm of biblical proportions, Dean agreed, ironically enough. 

Meanwhile, still in the kitchen, Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair, thinking about how exactly he was going to do this. God, this was probably a job for _real _federal agents. The last time the people had been the monsters, both of them had almost died. Sam wasn’t getting that feeling this time for whatever reason, but that didn’t mean shit wasn’t about to go down. And he’d just sent his brother out into the storm, alone, to go check out the barn.

“Alright,” Sam sighed again. “We’re going to rehash every detail of that night. Since you guys” – he gestured to Mr. Martin and his sons – “have finally bothered to show up, we may be able to get a more complete picture. Um.” He ran his hand over his jaw and surveyed the group, all nine –

Wait.

There was something wrong with this picture.

Someone was missing.

Mr. and Mrs. Martin, plus Lizbeth and Ruth, and the five boys –

Oh.

Oh, _shit_.

Of course the girl who had just accused her sister of murder was the one missing. Sam shook his head in disbelief.

“Where’s Maryann?”

xXx

Dean had left his suit jacket in the car, having already been soaked to the bone and not wanting to carry around the extra layer. The barn – tall and looming in the storm – was right where Mr. Martin had said it would be. The thing was old, and probably badly in need of an update, but at least it was mostly dry; Dean had barely been able to see through the rain to get here. He sighed, dripping everywhere, and pulled out the EMF, its whir echoing just a bit through the old barn. He shivered; the temperature had dropped with the rain and as the sun (if you could even believe it was still there through this storm) had started to set, and a wind had picked up, and it sliced through the gaps in the walls.

The structure didn’t look as if it had actually been used for anything in a long time. There was no livestock, no heavy farm machinery – just some planters and bags of feed. There was a hayloft, but going and investigating up there hadn’t done much good, just clung bits of straw to the legs of Dean’s pants. He was just about to give up on the place when he noticed a door going down to what looked like an old cellar.

“Well, shit,” Dean murmured. This was it. He could feel it. If there was anything supernatural going on here, he was going to find it in that cellar. He took a deep breath and shut off the EMF – it hadn’t been coming up with anything anyways – and began his descent.

And there it fucking was.

The altar.

And –

“Hello, Agent Best.”

\- Mary-_fuckin’_-Ann.

xXx

“_Where is she_?”

Sam was done being good cop, and he could be a scary motherfucker when he wanted to be, drawn up to full height the way he was, and he was about ten seconds from pulling out his gun. Ruth was crying, really wailing in her seat, and Sam barely registered feeling sorry for her. 

“I swear we don’t know, Agent,” Mr. Martin said helplessly. “We din’t see her on the way in.”

“You were downstairs. She said she had to go to the bathroom,” Lizbeth said, trembling. Later, Sam would feel like a real heel about all this, but not right now, not with his brother out there on his own.

“Well, we need to find her,” Sam said, voice dangerously low. “She’s accused your daughter of murdering your father, Mr. Martin, but she’s making herself look pretty guilty right now with this disappearing act of hers.”

Lizbeth turned pale, and Ruth started crying harder, so hard Sam figured she might pass out. “Sh-she thinks I did it?” Lizbeth asked weakly. “Agent, I would never – “

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam cut in. “We need the full picture, we need….”

Sam stopped. He was having a revelation about Revelations 21:8.

“_But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars – they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second of death_.”

It didn’t matter who the message had been from – Daniel or the person who did this; it had been there all along in Revelations. 

And witches were right in their wheelhouse.

Without another word, Sam bolted out the back door and tore through the rain for the barn.

xXx

“You.”

Maryann just shrugged. “Me.”

“Why?”

It was always best to get them talking. Dean needed backup, and Sam wasn’t here, so now he was just stalling, playing for time, as much of it as he could get. “Because my sister’s a sinner,” Maryann said calmly. “Because she lies. Because she’s never loved God as much as I do. Our whole lives, she’s looked to the outside world with her books. She escapes to be alone – she says to be with God, but we all know she wants to sit out there with her impure, worldly thoughts. She needed to be punished. No one else in our family could see that, _but I could_. Somebody had to turn to God and ask Him what needed to be done, and I was the person to do it.” Talk about hubris.

Dean didn’t understand. “So why kill your grandfather? Why not just kill your sister?”

“Because that’s not what God told me to do,” Maryann explained, like it should have been obvious. “I prayed to Him. I asked Him how I should carry out His will to punish her. Our grandfather was near his death, anyways, and it would have looked even more suspicious if Lizbeth had just mysteriously died.”

It was starting to slowly dawn on Dean what had happened here. “So you killed him by her secret spot,” Dean said, connecting the dots. “A place where only she goes. And she’s been the one taking care of him, so you thought you could get people to believe she was bitter about it, and wanted to get rid of him.”

“Guess you’re not just a pretty face,” Maryann cooed. “My sister is lustful, too. Did you know that? She stood at the window watching you and your partner leave. She was thinking impure thoughts about Agent Starkey. I know her, I could tell. She wants a man who cannot stay. She’s being tempted, and isn’t repenting. She thinks she’s above asking for God’s forgiveness.”

There was the click of a trigger being pulled back, and then Sam’s voice.

“Pretty sure God’s not going to be too happy with you, either.”

xXx

Lizbeth scrambled up the staircase to her bedroom, barely able to contain the sobs wracking through her, and slammed the door behind her. This had all gotten _wildly_ out of hand. Why had she ever told that reporter the truth? Not to mention the police, too. What had she brought down upon her and her family? Lying was of course a sin, but just look at the trouble telling the truth had gotten her. 

Her own sister thought she was capable of killing their grandfather. Maryann really believed that. 

They all believed a lot of things.

Lizbeth fell to her knees beside her bed, hands poised in prayer, ready to turn to Him for the answers as she always did, but…she stopped. Pressed into her knee was a little pouch of some sorts, a deep violet tied off at the top. Lizbeth reached down and grabbed it, untied the little knot. Inside the pouch were little animal bones, some stringy substance, and what looked to be a swatch of fabric off of an old checked shirt.

Wait.

Lizbeth blinked a few times, God all but forgotten as her mouth dried up and her heart started fluttering in her chest, threatening to leap out. 

This was not good.

This was, in fact, the second of death.

xXx

Well.

Nearly.

xXx

“You can’t hurt me,” Maryann spat. Her voice didn’t even sound like her own, more like as if there were multiple souls, or maybe multiple Maryanns, kicking around in there, echoing off each other. “Nobody can!” She roared. “God has _chosen me! _And no man _dare_ stand in the path of the Lord!”

This sort of monologue wouldn’t usually deter a Winchester. However, when Maryann’s eyes rolled back and began to bleed, when her skin started to turn a sickly grey and crack open, when her teeth started to rot out of her head and her fingernails fell out; that…that gave them pause. Maryann certainly _looked _like something created by God, but nothing good; no, no she looked like a creature out of the ninth circle of Hell, what with the way her skin was splitting open as if it had been flash-frozen, the way the temperature in the room dropped. Dean’s damp clothes stiffened up instantly. Sam, remembering his Dante, looked over his shoulder for Judas of Iscariot, for it felt more like they were trapped in a meat locker, not a cellar, with this she-beast of God. 

The worst part? This was no creature; _this_ was Maryann.

Shaking, Dean took his shot.

_“Dean!”_

A lot happened very quickly. First, the bullet entered Maryann’s stomach, but it did exactly zero damage, as her skin quickly stitched itself up, each thread gluing itself back together through a series of sickening _snick-snick-snicks. _That’s when she turned on Dean, throwing him up against the wall with a snarl, revealing her toothless mouth behind her blood red lips. Sam was torn at first: help his brother, or destroy the altar? Dean was making a convincing case; Maryann’s brittle-nailed hand was at his throat, digging into his skin as she worked to cut off his air. But if Sam destroyed the altar, her power would be lost – wouldn’t it? How powerful a thing had she become? (Very. The answer is very powerful.) 

“_The altar, Sam!”_

Decision made for him, Sam ran for the altar; the whole thing was desecrated with fluids and entrails (probably belonging to that poor dog), meanwhile Dean coughed and winced as Maryann’s neck seemed to extend to bring her face to meet with his, and she hissed through her forked tongue, “_Silence! ‘Like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he opened not his mouth.’”_

“Isaiah 53:7. And I believe you’re taking it out of context.”

xXx

Time was ticking down for Lizbeth.

In all honesty, this wasn’t how she thought she would go. Actually, in her fog, she wasn’t quite sure what _was _happening to her, or why it seemed to be taking so long. Her heart was beating a mile a minute; it felt like it was buzzing in her chest, while she felt as if maybe her eyes just might pop out of her skull, pulsing and throbbing. And there was the horrible, coppery taste of blood pooling in the back of her throat, choking her. 

This must have all been some sort of divine punishment for what she had done, was what Lizbeth thought at first, but through her haze, it occurred to her that maybe that wasn’t exactly fair on herself. 

She didn’t deserve to die.

xXx

There was a lot of power in that cellar. Maryann’s now-monstrous form startled at the sound of the angel’s commanding voice. She could sense his power, but did not yet know what he was. Maryann narrowed her brow in consideration, but kept her hold on Dean. “What are _you_?” She hissed.

Castiel completely disregarded her, striding over to get directly in her face. “Sam, the destruction of her altar will do nothing. I would suggest you both close your eyes.”

Sam and Dean didn’t have to be told twice; if an angel tells you to shut your eyes, you shut your eyes – no questions asked. Good thing, too, because for as bad as the end result was going to be, it was the way Castiel got there that was the truly horrific thing. Before Maryann could ask any more questions or make another move, the angel’s hands were on either side of her head, and that was truly the point of no return.

The sound that came out of her mouth was as disturbing as her monstrous form, a guttural howl emanating from somewhere deep in her non-existent soul. Castiel’s eyes didn’t leave Maryann’s for a second, watching as they went from rolled-back and bleeding to burnt-out husks. Oh, but he didn’t stop there. Religious zealots had always angered Castiel, what with their self-righteousness and complete misunderstanding of what it was the Lord wanted them to do. How hard was it to understand that the Bible was simply a series of allegories written by several authors over hundreds of years that served to give just a general sense of what human morality should look like, but considering its several inconsistencies should therefore not be taken entirely at face value? Oh, it _infuriated _Castiel to see the mortals that used that book as a crutch to mistreat their fellow man.

So, he did what any sensible angel would do.

(Besides burning out her eyes, that is, but even then he took his time with it.)

After the eyes came the skin. It peeled off layer by layer in places, in great chunks in others, so her ugly interior could be revealed. Then the hands with which her evil doings had been performed were rotated and bent backwards, then the spindly fingers broken. Each of her hairs was plucked out one by one, for the vanity she had wrongly accused her sister of. Her brain, naturally, was reduced to a substance that could really only be described as goo. Then, of course, her evil heart shriveled up and hardened in her chest. When Castiel was satisfied with that, the final step, the piece de resistance, was the splitting open of her body – from tip to tail.

And then Castiel let go of Maryann and let her desecrated body fall to the cellar floor.

xXx

Lizbeth bolted up at that same moment and spat the blood out of her mouth.

Something had happened.

Perhaps God had saved her.

xXx

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cas,” Dean breathed, sinking down the wall as he massaged his throat, grimacing. This one was gonna hurt in the morning. “What the hell was that?”

Maryann’s burnt-out, riven, monstrous husk lay oozing and smoldering on the dirty cellar floor, now more a crypt than any sort of barn storage. Sam scrunched up his nose at the smell of blood and decay and…he noted that there was also a hint of ozone in there. Jesus fucking Christ was right. The Maryann they had met earlier in the day was nowhere to be seen, but she was gone. Hell – her insides were spilling out all over the place, coming out in a bubbling green and black ooze, which most _definitely_ was not human. Perhaps that had all been a bit much – neither Sam nor Dean had braved even a peek as it was happening, not after hearing her distress – but it was done now, her face frozen in a permanent scream. 

“She loved the Bible more than she loved God,” Castiel said simply, in that frightening monotone of his. “So I showed her what happens to witches.”

Sam blinked a few times. He’d never seen a witch go like _that_.

“Well,” Castiel continued, added an addendum, “at least, what she believes the Bible says should happen to witches.”

“Why wouldn’t destroying her altar have worked?” Sam asked.

Castiel turned on him, his blue eyes cold. “It would have. I just wanted to take care of her myself.”

Oh, yes – angels of the lord were frightful beings indeed.

“Cas, was this a seal?” Dean asked, voice raw and grating. Castiel shook his head. 

“No. No, this woman made herself into a monster. I was simply delivering her punishment.”

“Someone ordered you to kill her?” Dean wondered.

Castiel didn’t answer. 

xXx

No.

The answer was no.

Castiel had decided he could take care of this one himself.

xXx

Lizbeth stumbled out of the bathroom, after cleaning herself up as best she could. Her shirt was still stained with her blood, but so was the carpet in her bedroom. She’d splashed some water on her face and taken a few deep breaths, watching herself closely in the mirror. She was still here; she was alive. But how? And why did there even need to _be _a how – what had done this to her? Who was after her family?

She stumbled down the stairs with these questions running through her mind, and found her family still sitting quietly in the kitchen, the final touches being put on dinner. Lizbeth narrowed her eyes and watched them, her mother and father, her sister, her brothers. There was something wrong with this picture, and it wasn’t that Maryann was missing, that those FBI agents were nowhere to be seen. The problem was that dinner was ready.

“Aren’t y’all worried?” Lizbeth asked softly, and all at once they looked at her. “How could you be thinkin’ about dinner at a time like this?”

Lightning flashed, illuminating her mother from behind while completely leaving her face in darkness. “The Lord gave us this food,” she said, not a hint of emotion in her voice – not the slightest waver. “We should not waste it and appear ungrateful. Besides – the roast was nearly done by the time they went out there.”

“Mama, look at me,” Lizbeth demanded, bursting into the kitchen and grabbing her mother’s arm and forcing her to look into her face. “Look at me! Mama, I was dying up there. Didn’t you hear me? I was choking to death on my own blood!” Lizbeth wheeled on the rest of her family. “Didn’t any of you hear me? You didn’t wonder why I was gone for so long? Ruth, tell me _you _noticed! Please – !”

Another roll of thunder and flash of lightning, and then there was a man in a trench coat standing in the middle of the Martin kitchen. But Lizbeth was the only one who made a sound, who made a move. The man stood very still and considered each member of the family in turn, his blue eyes piercing and his demeanor calm, yet his presence commanding. There was a certain…buzz about him.

“Lizbeth Martin?” He asked, his voice gravelly and even. 

“Um. Yes?”

“You were right to believe what you saw,” he said. “Because it was real. And your sister Maryann was the one who did it. She killed your grandfather’s dog to perform the spell that both killed your grandfather and then used him as a puppet to deliver a warning. You were her next victim – you’re lucky to be alive.”

Suddenly it was if Lizbeth and this man were the only two people in this room, and maybe they were. She stepped closer to him. “What do you mean ‘were’?”

“I mean your sister is dead. The enchantress displeased the Heavenly Host.”

Maryann…dead? No, it couldn’t be…oh, but it _could _be true, she could see it in his eyes. Lizbeth started to tear up, thinking of her sister. How could she have done such a thing? For the first time in her life, Lizbeth was angry that her sister had loved God more than her.

“Good,” the man said, reading her thoughts. “God has the angels. Humans have each other. She should have loved you better. Her heart was corrupted by her convictions to the Lord, and that was her most grievous mistake.”

“Wh-what do I do now?” Lizbeth asked shakily, the tears starting to fall. 

“You leave,” he said simply. “You leave and you don’t look back. Then you learn how to still love God but put your fellow man first. That is what you do.”

He made it sound so simple that Lizbeth found herself convinced, and she nodded her head. “What is your name?” She asked, her voice slow and thick with tears.

“My name is Castiel, and I’m an angel of the Lord.”

xXx

“What a goddamned mess this is.”

Maryann’s body was getting wheeled out of the cellar, encased in a black body bag. One of the coroners had vomited on sight when they got down there, and Sam and Dean couldn’t blame them. Her family was standing off to the periphery of the scene, and the sheriff had cornered Sam and Dean to debrief on the whole…on the whole goddamned mess.

“You can say that again,” Dean sighed. “We can’t tell you what did that to her, but we can tell you that she’s the one who killed Dan Martin, his dog, and was planning on killing her sister next, probably for ratting her out, and maybe even me since I got in her way.”

The sheriff shook his head. “Good _God_.”

Yeah, something like that.

Castiel had disappeared, like usual, but before the cops and the coroners and Phoebe Smalls, reporter-at-large, had shown up, he had walked out with Lizbeth, a hand on her shoulder in a very human gesture. The sky had cleared up not long after Maryann’s death, but it was still dark out under this midnight sky. There wasn’t even a moon. 

“May she get a ride to the bus station with the two of you?” Cas had asked, and that’s when Sam and Dean noticed the bag in her hands. Lizbeth had glanced over briefly at her family, who stood together in a small huddle, probably praying for their daughter’s soul, not even seeming to notice she was missing. Sam and Dean looked at each other, and Dean gave a small nod. They didn’t ask questions. 

“’Course,” he said easily. “Why don’t you go ahead and climb in the back?”

Sam glanced over at the car, watching the poor girl stare blankly out the Impala’s window in the direction of her house. He didn’t know why she was leaving with them, but he had the feeling it had something to do with her family not even inviting her to join in their prayer. Did they blame her for this? Would they really side with their daughter, the _witch_, the one who had bought herself a one-way ticket to Hell, over the daughter who had been falsely accused and nearly died simply because…because what? Because her story had scared Maryann to the point of wanting to murder Lizbeth to cover her tracks? Because she’d brought shame to their family? Yeah – maybe it was for the best she was getting out of here.

xXx

“Yeah, Bobby, I hear ya. Yeah, we can get up there. It’ll take a few days, though. ‘Kay. See ya then.”

Dean hung up and sighed, holding his phone up to his mouth and closing his eyes, breathing deeply. Bobby had been right, that was sure – this had been a case. But it was one of the most fucked-up cases he and Sam had ever come across, as confusing and vicious as they came. This didn’t feel like a win, even with Maryann the Fundamentalist Witch dead as leaves under his feet, because that poor girl in their backseat had suffered so horribly, and she may have been alive, but she had no family to speak of – they didn’t seem to even want her. 

“Hey.”

Dean looked over his shoulder and saw Sam coming out of the convenience store. He tossed him a bag of peanut M&Ms, and Dean gave him the smallest curve of his lip in gratitude, then screwed Baby’s gas lid back on tight and paid for their gas. “Hey yourself.”

“You doing okay?”

Dean snorted softly. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. You?” 

Sam sighed. “Yeah, me too. Just, uh. Kinda don’t feel as if we did anything. Besides confirm that there _was _something unnatural going on, that is.”

“That ain’t nothin’,” Dean shrugged.

“Yeah, Dean, it sort of is.” Sam shook his head. “It didn’t feel like we did any good – we were just there.”

Yeah, that was fair. “D’you know Lizbeth has a bit of a crush on you?” Dean asked, nudging Sam in a different direction – and in the shoulder.

“Oh, yeah? Well, good for her.”

“I’ll say – she’s s’posed to end up with some pencil-necked vacuum salesman, but instead she’s head-over-heels for your granola ass.” They both laughed, but Sam’s heart wasn’t quite in it. “I feel awful for her,” he whispered. “She almost died. She’s lost her whole family, maybe even her faith. Her whole world’s been rocked.”

Dean considered his brother carefully. “How ‘bout you, huh? Your faith still intact?”

The question wasn’t meant as a challenge, and Sam knew that, but he still wanted to set the record straight. He knew what Dean probably thought – that he, this Godless creature, as monstrous as Maryann had become, had no reason to believe in God, in something better. But Dean wasn’t in Sam’s shoes. “I don’t believe in God because I need some set of rules, like the Martins did,” he explained. “That’s not why.”

“Then why?”

“Because I like to believe that maybe someone’s looking out for us. That maybe there’s…something better. I don’t quite know how to articulate it, but it just makes me feel better. To me, He’s someone to vent to. Does that make sense?”

No. Why did Sam need someone to vent to? Dean was right there! “Yeah, that makes sense. Let’s get this girl outta here, whaddya say?”

xXx

“Lizbeth, do you have somewhere you can go? Someone you can stay with?”

Sam – he had told her to call him Sam and the other man Dean, by their first names – was looking back at her with those earnest eyes of his. Lizbeth’s heart ached a bit to think she’d probably never see him again. She didn’t know whether she should blame God for that sort of thing anymore or not – Castiel had said she needed to open her heart to others and stop using God as a scapegoat. Maybe this was the place to start.

But then his question set in, and she realized…no. No, she didn’t. “There’s not,” she whispered brokenly. “I…I don’t know where to go,” Lizbeth admitted, crying again. She was doing _so much_ crying lately. Sam sighed and looked over at Dean, who seemed to get the message that he was taking it from her, and he looked at Lizbeth through the rearview mirror.

“Lizbeth, I know this is gonna be hard, and that you’ve never been on your own. But for as scary as it is, this is also your chance to start over, be the person you want. Have you ever thought about what _you _want?”

Lizbeth stared back at him through the mirror, straight into his bright green eyes. Then she looked at Sam, who gave her an encouraging smile. The bus depot was waiting out there in the dark, the wheeze of the silver-toned buses as they pulled into the lot screeching through the night, the tall neon sign a beacon for lost souls. What _she _wanted? She’d never really thought about it; she’d always thought about that sort of thing in the terms she had been told were spelled out in the Bible. What _did _she want? Who _did _she want to be? And how could she ever begin to figure that out? 

The sign out front advertised one-way tickets to San Francisco. She’d never been that far from home. 

Maybe that would be a good place to start.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please be sure to check out all the other awesome stories and art in this collection on here and on tumblr. :)


End file.
